


To Die and To Love

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Endverse, Episode: s05e04 The End, Fallen Castiel, Future Castiel, Future Dean Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The endverse. Sam's gone. Castiel and Dean try to cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Die and To Love

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out to be a really angsty endverse ficlet. Sorry if it's depressing.

Cas can’t help it.

But he comes, comes in copious amounts, almost embarrassed by the way he spills over Dean’s hand, the way he shivers with need, the way he grips Dean tight even as he’s straining with all his body to pull away.

And he lies there, as Dean zips up his pants, as he readjusts the holster on his thigh, as he leaves him on the bed, naked, in need, wounded. Cas has always desired closeness, human contact, and he thinks part of Dean knows this, purposefully leaves him there, so that he’ll accept him when he comes back, after hours, days, nights. That no matter how long he’s gone, he’ll always be welcomed back with open arms.

And they don’t talk about it.

The fact that they’ve been sharing each other’s bed, the fact that Dean’s been wordlessly elevated to the position of ‘fearless leader’, that everyone takes his orders lying down, whether it’s on the battlefield or in bed, and that Castiel lets Dean get away with anything.

And he thinks, as Dean slams into him, hard, that maybe they could have had something different.

That he wouldn’t be just a rotation. That he wouldn’t just be Dean’s diversion from the shitstorm that was now their life. That he wouldn’t be left alone in his bed after they’d fucked, too stoned to cry, too empty to do anything.

But instead this was his reality. Where every Thursday Dean found himself in Cas’s cabin. Where they sometimes shared some orgasms, maybe even a night curled into each other. Those rare nights when Dean would let himself drift to sleep in Castiel’s arms, before waking and disappearing. To him, it was all about keeping up appearances.

Part of Cas revels in the fact that Dean keeps returning to his bed, that he’s the only regular in a sea of warm bodies, but he knows that this is just him trying to find a bright light amongst a sea of despair. The fact that Dean’s sleeping with anyone else at all kills him inside. And he doesn’t understand why Dean doesn’t feel the same way.

He knows that he disgusts him, with his drugs, with his drowning of sorrows in medicine and pills, in the marijuana he grows on the fields outside of camp, he knows it hurts him, drives him away. But Castiel can’t stop.

Because the drugs are the only thing that numb the pain of Dean’s absence, and Dean’s absence is something that’s becoming more and more common. So whether it’s Dean or the drugs that’s slowly eating at him, breaking him down, Castiel doesn’t know. He just knows what makes him feel good.

And shit, Dean inside him makes him feel good. He’s gotten a taste for the sexual, ever since his grace disappeared, since he became the human mess he is now. And girl or guy, he isn’t really picky. The women that drift through his cabin are pretty enough, but they don’t really do much for him. The men either. There’s been a couple. Always under false pretenses, a spiritual guidance, or perhaps a heart-to-heart. It always ends up with cock against cock, their dark vile orgasms hitching as one drinks the other in, and then they never speak of it again. Seems Castiel’s become the go-to sex guy. And he doesn’t really care. He only cares when they whisper about Dean, how he isn’t above the rest of them, how even he sometimes has to take care of his needs in Castiel’s cabin.

But it’s more than that. He has to believe that it’s more.

One night, they collapse for the last time, after several minutes—or was it hours?—of dark panting, of sweat and skin, of mouths and tongue and heat. Castiel wants to talk to him, he wants to ask, why Dean would ever choose someone else over him. But he knows he has no right. Castiel isn’t exactly faithful, Dean isn’t faithful, and Sam is gone, destroyed, Lucifer wearing his body, and Dean hates everything about his existence on this earth.

Sometimes, after they’ve fucked, in the dark of night, when no light shines through except the moon, illuminating Dean’s face as he tosses and turns in his sleep, Castiel sees his hurt. He sees his anger. He sees how he thinks he’s failed, since he couldn’t protect his brother. All he’s ever been good for was protecting Sammy, and since he couldn’t do that, all he can do now is destroy him. Put him in the ground.

But Castiel sees Dean. He sees his eyes, even if they’re closed, he sees the bright green burning through his eyelids, he sees the smattering of freckles on his cheeks, he sees his strong hands, now relaxed by his sides, or thrown up by his head, when just hours earlier they had been grasping Castiel’s thighs, pressing bruises that wouldn’t disappear for weeks, when they had clasped his own hands, when that contact had meant something.

It was just sex now. It wasn’t anything else.

Dean’s become hard, so hard, and it’s not just how he feels under Castiel’s fingers. It’s his voice, it’s the way he barks orders, it's in the way he carries himself. He’s a soldier, with only one goal, to kill Lucifer. But anything he does to help the hurt, the sadness, the crazy fucked up misfortune that is their lives, it’s simply a distraction.

Castiel is nothing more than a distraction.

And Castiel hates himself. His nights with Dean were supposed to be his highlight, but slowly they turned into his nightmare. And as the days flew by, they suddenly stopped. This warm embrace, something to share a bed with, whatever fragile emotional connection they might have held onto, no longer became necessary. It was too hard.

Dean filled the void with women, with others. Castiel filled the hole Dean had left with alcohol and drugs. And they hadn’t spoken. It was something "you don't talk about."

But the day before they marched on Lucifer, Dean returned to him.

They spend the night wrapped up in each other, probably for the last time, Castiel thinks. He had accepted his inevitable death. And even though God had abandoned them, he still hopes that he'll end up in heaven. That even without his grace, he might be able to spend some version of Paradise with some version of Dean. Because even if Dean didn’t want him, Castiel needed Dean, needed him with his heart and soul, and as Dean slides in and out, as he feels the pressure inside, as Castiel thinks of the horror that faces them tomorrow, he thinks that maybe Dean was putting a bit of himself into Castiel, not just in the physical sense, but that they were melding together. The feel of his chest against his, the feel of his knee nosing into his crotch, his hot lips pressing against his stomach, his side, his beautiful eyes avoiding Castiel’s own, because if they looked at each other, they might actually share something.

And it’s different that night, not because Dean lets Castiel fuck him for the first time, but because his face is empty, even the way he grips Cas’s back is different; the way he kisses is different. No longer fuel for someone trying to find hope amongst the darkness. This is the last rendezvous of a dead man. A man who’s been dead for a long time. Castiel is surprised he didn’t see it before.

So Castiel takes it, he revels in Dean, in his smell, in his hair, his perfect body against his, and he knows it’s the last time he’ll ever feel it. He’s no longer an angel, but this feeling, the sense of the end, of his death, is as real as ever. He knows that they will both die tomorrow. But he doesn’t tell him. Just lets them feel each other, for what he knows will be the last time, and maybe, just maybe, that could pass for love.

He gets him there. He makes Dean come, and he follows him over the edge a few moments later, but Dean doesn’t whisper any sweet words of encouragement, no, not even words of hate and desperation and sadness that Castiel has come to associate with their lovemaking, not _please_ , not _I hate you so much_ , not _I love you_ , not _I can’t stand this_ , not _Cas_ , not _Castiel_ , no, there’s no words, Dean doesn’t have words for him anymore, it’s all in the body. No more connection of the spirit, no more connection of the mind.

Cas holds him, his brain soaked in a hazy drug-induced fog. He kind of wishes he could have had this moment without them, without the chemicals coursing through his veins, but he can barely stand to look at Dean without medication in his voice. Because if he were sober, he might let his feelings show. He might tell him something stupid, like _I need you,_ or  _I love you._ He’s going to die for Dean tomorrow, and Dean knows it. He knows it.

So he just lets him clasp tighter to his chest, lets him pass out as he wraps his arms around him, as he buries his face into his hair, inhaling him, taking in his scent one last time. Because even through his medicated stupor, he knows Dean, knows him intimately, lovingly, and no amount of prescriptions or weed could ever replace him. Cas only uses them to numb the pain, numb the fact that Dean has never felt the same way.

 


End file.
